


How To Say I Love You, Without Using Those Three Words

by Songbird321



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Sickfic, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songbird321/pseuds/Songbird321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say actions speak louder than words. Jean never knew how much he had to learn from his boyfriend, or that the most important thing Marco could ever teach him was how to use actions to say the three most important words of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Say I Love You, Without Using Those Three Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Romupi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romupi/gifts).



> Happy Holidays! This fic was written for Romupi, following the prompt of inexperienced older dom learning from an experience younger sub. Now, this is pure fluff following that idea. Jean is 25, Marco is 19, just to clarify. I sincerely hope that you will enjoy! I'd also like to apologize for how long this got, the idea just got away from me and I couldn't stop it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

1.

“Oh, no!” Jean exclaimed, racing into the kitchen as the smoke detector began to wail. He snatched a towel from the counter and began to fan the air around the machine until the screeching stopped, dispersing a cloud of light smoke that was still pouring from the oven. Biting his lip, Jean pulled open the door and leapt back when a cloud of smoke poured out.

“No, no, no, no, no,” the young man repeated hopelessly as he pulled out the ashy remains of a pan of chicken he’d been trying to cook. “Ahhhgg!” Jean groaned, throwing the pan down on the counter and hiding his face in his hands. He sprung up not a moment later to get the scalding pan off the counter and douse it in the sink, which was already full of murky water and dirty dishes, the aftermath of his attempt to cook. Make that _failed_ attempt to cook.

Jean looked at the clock and groaned again. “He’s gonna be here in two minutes!” he whined out loud, running his hands through his hair and looking at the counter for anything to be salvaged. The chicken had been burned to ash. He’d over boiled the pasta till it was hard as a rock. 

The salad had been fine till his hand had slipped and the whole bottle of dressing had fallen in, and the whole thing was too soggy to eat. And he’d even burned the toast he’d tried to make as a last ditch effort.

The bottom line was his boyfriend was due at the door for dinner any minute, and there was no dinner to be had. Maybe Marco wouldn’t mind if they had just had cereal again…

A knock sounded at the door and Jean jumped, a scream dying in his throat. Immediately, he snatched the towel up again and tried in vain to get the smell of smoke to leave the air. After a few seconds of desperate waving and another knock at the door, Jean bit his lip nervously and, taking one last look at the mess of dishes in the sink, ran to answer the door. His socked feet slid ungracefully on the wooden floor as he neared the door and it took all his willpower and balance not to fall flat on his face. Crisis averted, the young man took a deep breath, plastered a smile on his face, undid the lock, and pulled the door open. Standing in the hall was a young man with dark, neatly combed hair, warm brown eyes, a more than generous splattering of freckles dusting his face, and the brightest smile on the planet

“Hello!” Marco greeted cheerfully, his face lighting up with that star-bright smile that melted Jean’s heart every time.

“Hey,” the fair-haired man greeted back, stepping back so the other boy could move inside. “How was class?”

“Great. My last paper for Renaissance lit is due in a week, and we got our paper’s back for critical theory yesterday,” Marco answered, pulling off his messenger bag and setting it on the floor before undoing the buttons on his coat.

“Oh,” Jean commented, raising his eyebrows as he shut the door. “And?”

He saw Marco try to hide his grin as he pulled open the zipper on his bag before producing a paper with an A written on in blue pen.

“Marco!” Jean gasped, taking the paper in his hands to inspect the professor’s comments before turning wide eyes back to his boyfriend. “Marco, this is amazing! Congratulations!” He held his arms wide open and happily wrapped his freckled boyfriend into a tight hug. Marco rested his head on Jean’s shoulder, Jean nuzzling his face into his boyfriend’s neck, enjoying having him so close. “Babe, that’s amazing. I know how hard you worked on that paper.”

“And how stressed I was about it…” Marco trailed off guiltily.

Jean clicked his tongue, and pulled away from Marco’s shoulder so he could see his face. “Oh please. Don’t even apologize. I know how important grades are to you, especially when it comes to papers. No need to apologize for any stress related comments.” He cupped Marco’s cheeks in his hand, and the other boy scrunched his face up like a rabbit. Jean laughed. “You’re cute.”

“You’re cuter,” Marco cooed in response, pecking Jean’s lips, his eyes sparkling deviously as he pulled away. Jean’s eyebrows raised as he retaliated with his own kiss, but before he could pull away, Marco caught him by the shoulders and held him fast, ensuring that this kiss would not just be another peck of endearment. It wasn’t long, it wasn’t all that passionate, just a simple kiss that didn’t steal your breath or make you feel reckless, but was curiously satisfying. It was warm, it was charming, it was Marco. Sweeter than sugar, and as unpredictable as a summer storm. It always surprised Jean when Marco was the one to instigate kisses like this. But what perpetually baffled him was how good of a kisser Marco was: based on the boy’s generally cheerful demeanor, it was hard to believe he was as skilled a kisser as he was, leaving you perfectly content but also craving more at the same time. It was not fair, and Jean wanted to know his secret almost as much as he wanted to be Marco’s test subject.

“So, I was told there was going to be dinner?” Marco questioned as his lips quirked to the side, completely ignorant of how that simple question made Jean’s stomach drop to the floor.

“Yeah, uh… I was thinking that maybe we should get pizza tonight…”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to cook, though?” Marco cut off his excuse, his forehead wrinkling confusedly.

“Yes, I did say that, but I’ve just been so busy today I didn’t have the time to make anything,” Jean lied, pouting his lips and drooping his shoulders to look more convincing. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Marco said brightly, cupping Jean’s face in his hands with a cheerful smile. “No worries. But we don’t have to order in: we went out on Monday. Why don’t we just go make sandwiches or something?” Jean nodded, taking one of Marco’s hands in his own and squeezing it tightly.

“Sounds like a plan. So, other than your papers, class was good?”

The two young men made their way down the hall to the kitchen, Marco filling Jean in on some of the smaller details of his day. Jean nodded along, his gaze held on the younger man, admiring the way the brunette looked as he talked, the animation in his voice and gait as he got to talking about the poetry of John Donne or whoever. Jean was so caught up in listening to Marco that he overlooked the fact that they were walking right into a bloodbath.

“Whoa,” Marco said, eyes blowing wide as they stepped into the kitchen.

“Huh?” Jean questioned before his own eyes moved back to the mess he’d left. “Oh…” The sink was still piled high with dishes half submerged in murky water. Half used ingredients and cooking utensils were haphazardly thrown all over the counters. A haze of smoke and steam still clung on the ceiling. It was like a culinary war zone.

“Too busy, huh?” Marco joked, smirking in Jean’s direction before moving towards the sink. Jean bit his lip, not sure what to say. He’d never felt so speechless in his entire life. Or humiliated. He dropped his eyes to the floor. The tell tale feeling of a blush rising in his face wasn’t helping the steady incline of his heart rate, and if they hadn’t been dating for almost a year now, Jean probably would have asked Marco to break up with him then and there in order to save the brunette the humiliation of having to be in a relationship with someone as useless and embarrassing as him.

“Jean?” The fair-haired man didn’t look up. “Jean, do you not know how to cook?”

Jean scoffed, his head snapping up. “Of course I know how to cook.” Marco watched him with a smirk on his face, arms crossed over his chest. “Honestly, I do.” One of Marco’s eyebrows arched up. Jean sighed, his resolve crumbling. “Fine. I can’t cook. Happy?”

“Happy that you’re willing to acknowledge your failures and let me help you, yes,” Marco replied pointedly, walking over to the counter. “So, what were you trying to make?”

“I tried a lot of different things,” Jean admitted, biting his lip as he looked at the atrocious pile of dishes in the sink. “Pasta, chicken, toast…”

“Toast, Jean?” Marco exclaimed, swallowing back a laugh that earned him a sharp glare. “I’m sorry. That’s just… oh boy. Well, guess we’re really starting from square one.” The brunette moved to inspect the cabinets for whatever cooking equipment Jean hadn’t already employed that night. “So, what would you like to learn to make tonight?”

“What makes you so sure you know how to do this?” Jean asked skeptically, eyeing the brunette carefully as the boy continued searching his cabinets, (and tried not to stare too obviously when his shirt rode up ever so slightly, revealing just a teasing hint of the abdomen underneath.)

“Well, for one, I’m the oldest of four kids by three years. I often had to help my mom make dinner, and by the time I was in high school, there were nights where feeding everyone was my sole responsibility,” Marco answered simply, pulling a frying pan out of a cabinet and giving it a nod of affirmation. “I’ve been trained in the ways of the kitchen from a very young age, and it’s an art I’m very proud of. My parents say that’s how I’m going to meet my future spouse.”

“By cooking for them?” Jean questioned, an amused smile playing on his lips as he leaned back against the counter.

Marco shrugged. “They say the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. And I’ve heard it’s also a really good bargaining chip to use to get someone to fall in love with you. You just say ‘I can make ‘insert date’s favorite food here,’’ and they’ll never let you go.”

“Like you need any bargaining chips,” Jean commented. Marco blinked. “You are an angel, Marco. Any guy would be lucky to have you in his life, whether you could cook or not.”

That brought a blush to the younger man’s face. Marco bit his lip to keep himself from smiling, but failed rather miserably, and opted instead to turn away completely and change the subject.

“What’s in the fridge?” the freckled boy asked. Jean smirked. Marco never could take a compliment without turning into a puddle of mush

“Uhhhh,” Jean held out the sound as he pulled open the refrigerator and peered inside. He could feel Marco behind him, resting his head on the older boy’s shoulder to see inside, an unconscious reminder that Marco was a good three inches taller than him despite the six-year age difference, (but for as much as he complained about the height difference, Jean really didn’t mind it.) Jean smirked as he felt Marco’s arms wrap around his waist, and did his best to not let that distract him. “We got milk. Butter. A bottle of Pepsi and a bottle of Dr. Pepper. Grape jelly. Ketchup. Some cheese and turkey from the deli down the street, also a little bit of ham. Yeah, you said we should make sandwiches!”

“Nuh-uh. You’re not getting out of this that easy,” Marco said, sounding eerily similar to Jean’s mom. The older boy sighed.

“Fine,” he conceded. “Then we have some salsa. Grapes. The leftover chicken from Monday night when we went to that Italian place. Some left over Chinese food from two nights ago…”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jean, it was only two days ago!”

“Do you want me to keep going through the inventory or not?”

“Yes, please.”

Jean smirked before continuing. “Uh, we’ve got some vegetables I bought earlier today that escaped my wrath…”

“What vegetables?” Marco questioned.

“Broccoli, cauliflower, and a red pepper,” Jean answered, turning his head slightly to the side to see Marco better. “Cause I know you like all those things.” Marco pecked a kiss to Jean’s nose, earning him the gentlest of head-butts before Jean reached into the fridge and pulled out said vegetables. “Anything else of importance I listed off?”

“Grab the butter and leftover chicken, please,” Marco instructed, detaching himself from his boyfriend and moving towards the cabinets. “Do you have any pasta left?”

“Yeah, it’s in the cabinet to the left of the fridge. It’s shell shaped, so I hope that’s okay; I ruined the spaghetti noodles,” Jean answered, moving to wash the vegetables in the sink. He paused when he saw the mess in the sink, feeling his face burn with embarrassment. “I’m gonna go wash these in the bathroom,” he announced, moving off to do just that when a thought froze him in his tracks. “ _Left_? How did you know…?”

“I can see the empty box right there.” Marco pointed to an empty pasta box lying on the counter by the stove, where Jean had forgotten about it in all the craziness that had ensued. Jean’s shoulders fell and he met Marco’s eyes with a look he hoped apologized for the horrendous state his apartment was in. The brown eyes that gazed back were smiling, unable to care less about the dirty dishes or the lost meal or the lingering scent of burned food hanging in the air. The eyes that looked back were not just forgiving, but forgetting, moving forward and willing to help every step of the way. Those brown irises were just… Marco.

Jean shook his head when he realized he’d probably been staring too long, and jolted back to his mission of getting the vegetables ready. He moved into the bathroom, flicking on the lights with his elbow, and set about washing up the plants in the sink.

Never in a million years had Jean ever thought about Marco teaching him how to cook. He had thought about the conversation he and Marco would have when he told is boyfriend he couldn’t cook, how the young man would laugh at him, probably call him silly and ruffle his hair a bit, and that would be that. They’d joke about it on holidays and weekends here and there. Never had the thought crossed his mind that Marco would offer to teach him. Something about that seemed off, that his boyfriend, who was six years younger, would end up teaching him so basic and vital as how to cook. It seemed silly, as well as right somehow.

Jean also never thought that he’d be washing vegetables in the bathroom either.

Vegetables washed, Jean returned to the kitchen where Marco had two things set on the stove: a large pot and a frying pan. He’d also brought Jean’s iPod dock in from the living room and was currently spinning away on his iPod, which he’d clearly wasted no time in setting up in the system.

“So, what’re we making tonight, chef?” Jean asked, setting the vegetables down next to the brunette and trying to peer over his shoulder at the song he was choosing.

“Well, you are going to be making a simple pasta dish,” Marco replied, swiveling around on his heels and tapping a finger against Jean’s chest. His body perfectly shielded the iPod from view and Jean narrowed his eyes.

“Are you sure about that?” Jean asked skeptically, trying to lean around Marco to see the iPod. The freckled boy nodded, shifting to the side to block Jean’s view. “You know I destroyed the pasta I tried to make earlier, right?”

“But you didn’t have me then,” Marco pointed out. “Now that you have my guidance, all will be well.” Jean pursed his lips challengingly. Marco gave an over exaggerated scowl in response that made him look like a child. It was all Jean could do not to laugh. “You want me to teach you, or not?”

“I don’t really see why I have to learn if you already know how,” Jean said, leaning his elbows against the counter and attempting to lean around Marco again. The brunette was still one step ahead of him and continued to hide the iPod screen as he also chose to lean back against his corner of the counter. Jean clicked his tongue.

“You have to learn cause cooking is a life skill that you will use for the rest of your life,” Marco said pointedly. “And do you want to know what step one is to making a perfect meal?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Stellar background music.” Marco spun around dramatically, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as if he were concentrating very hard as he pressed the play button on the iPod. _I’m Yours_ began to play. “I call this playlist ‘Songs to Sing Along To.’”

Jean’s lips rose on one side. “Why am I not surprised that you have a song devoted solely to sing alongs?” Marco beamed back at him, softly crooning the lyrics along with Jason Mraz.

“ _Well a you done, done me in, you bet I felt it_ ,” he sang, wiggling his index fingers and twisting his feet with the cheesiest of smiles on his freckled face. “ _I tried to be chill, but you’re so hot that I melted…_ ” He pulled on the collar of his shirt, his eyes flitting around the room as if he were suddenly too warm, and ended the lyric by mimicking melting to the floor. Jean snorted. “ _I fell right through the crack. Now I’m trying to get back._ ”

Jean stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Marco’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. He grinned as he Marco shook with laughter in his arms, felt more than heard as the musical sound was lost in Jean’s t-shirt.

“Okay, music man. I hear your pretty voice all the time. How about we get to cooking?” the older boy said, whispering his request directly into Marco’s ear and kissing his cheek with an overly exaggerated smack.

“Okay, as you wish,” Marco replied with the slightest hint of a laugh in his voice. “First is pasta.” He pointed to the pot on the stove. “It’s really not that difficult to make, however, there are a number of ways that it can trip you up.” _So don’t feel bad about messing up earlier_. He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. Jean could hear the implication in Marco’s voice, but it wasn’t condescending. Not in the slightest. It was sincere, unvoiced reassurance that he wasn’t a failure that tried to scaffold Jean’s ego by not calling attention to it.

“So, you start by boiling the water, which I’ve already done,” Marco said, waving Jean over to the stove.

“And that’s fine cause that’s the one thing I _was_ able to do,” Jean replied, staring down at the potful of boiling water. “Too bad scalding hot water isn’t edible.”

“What a shame,” Marco shook his head solemnly. “Now, here’s your pasta, sir.” He held the thin box out to Jean, who took it reluctantly. “Pour it into the water, and set the timer for ten minutes.”

“Ten?” Jean asked. “That’s enough?”

“Yes,” Marco nodded, taking a step back and nodding his head for Jean to do his thing. With a sigh, Jean tore off the end of the box and poured the uncooked shells into the pot. A spoon appeared at the side of his vision, and the young man took it begrudgingly, stirring the pasta around. “Good. Keep doing that.”

“What are you going to do? Watch me?”

“Mm-hm,” Marco bobbed his head in an energetic nod, leaning back against the counter and fixing his eyes on the older man.

Jean scoffed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Marco repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. Jean rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he continued to stir the pasta. “You don’t have to stir it for the whole ten minutes. Just take it a few seconds at a time.”

“Okay, Mom,” Jean replied. Marco chuckled and Jean cracked a smile against his will. As he continued to stir the pasta, Jean attempted to make it look as sexy as possible. Sticking his chest forward and hips back, he leaned in slightly closer to the stove, biting his lip and chancing a wink at his boyfriend. Naturally, he slipped and fell against the counter, thankfully avoiding the pot. Marco laughed out loud.

Face red as a tomato, Jean turned back to the pot and didn’t stop until the pasta was ready. Marco then taught his how to strain it, and threw the butter into the frying pan with the direction to tell him when it melted.

feeling his eyes growing heavy as Marco’s smooth voice washed over him like a wave, lulling him to sleep.

“Okay, the butter’s melted,” Jean announced when it was ready, looking expectantly at Marco for instructions.

“Then throw in the vegetables,” Marco instructed, flinging his hands excitedly. “And stir them up until they look cooked enough.”

“What does that mean?” Jean asked, freezing in the middle of pouring the pepper into the pan.

“I’ll let you know,” Marco nodded. He pointed a finger at Jean. “This time.”

The fair-haired boy gave him a salute. “Understood, sir.” He set about stirring the vegetables together, humming softly to himself to the soft music coming from Marco’s iPod. Cooking was a much more calming experience than Jean had previously thought. Maybe it was because he has Marco to guide him. Or maybe it was just because Marco was here in the room, banishing any negative spirits with his sheer presence.

“Those look about done. That took ten minutes,” Marco commented, snapping his fingers. “Remember that. And now add the chicken.” Jean nodded, taking the bowl of leftover chicken and dumping it into the pan. “It should only take about seven minutes this time because the chicken is already cooked. In any other circumstance, you’d want to cook the chicken before adding it.”

“How do I do that?” Jean asked.

“I’ll teach you next time,” Marco smiled with an encouraging pat on the back. Jean smiled in return, watching his culinary creation unfolding before his eyes.

“And here’s the pasta.” Jean accepted the proffered bowl and poured the contents into the pan. The noodles sizzled as they hit the hot surface below. The fair-haired man immediately began to stir again. “Now, you can sprinkle some salt and pepper on top for extra flavor,” Marco continued, watching the pan carefully. “As much as you’d like. Olive oil is also a possibility, but we don’t have that right now and I know you’re not a huge fan.”

“That would be correct,” Jean nodded thoughtfully as he did his best to not make the food in front of him internally combust using the telekinesis he certainly had not had five minutes ago. The young man internally slapped himself for sounding like an idiot. He blamed it on the stress and how Marco had an uncanny way of bringing the awkward in him out to play.

“Now, I want you to transport the pasta from that pan onto this plate,” the brunette said, his voice breaking through Jean’s inner turmoil. A plate appeared at Jean’s right. The young man nodded a few times, more to himself than to Marco, in anticipation of the momentous thing that was about to happen. Slow as a snail, Jean lifted the pan away from the stove and began to tip it toward the plate. The pasta moved much easer than he expected it to, falling perfectly onto the plate.

“And voila. Perfect meal right there,” the brunette said, pointing to the plate. Jean released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Jean Kirschtein, you have just successfully cooked you first meal by yourself that wasn’t mac and cheese.”

“Or ramen,” Jean added, wiggling his fingers excitedly. “And you know it wasn’t really all by myself.”

“Uh, did I touch any of the ingredients?” Marco asked, his lips quirking to the side in thought. He shook his head. “Ummm, no, don’t think I did. This was all you!” Jean shook his head, smiling to himself.

“You’re something else,” he said. Marco smiled back, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt modestly. The slightness of the gesture made Jean’s heart flutter, and before he could stop himself, “I’m sorry,” tumbled from his lips.

Bright brown eyes crinkled with confusion. “For what?” Marco asked, frowning slightly.

“Ruining tonight,” Jean sighed, slumping back against the counter.

“I don’t follow…”

“I promised I’d make you dinner. And I didn’t. I’m sorry,” Jean explained, meeting Marco’s eyes, making sure the boy knew just how sorry he was. “I just… when I offered to make dinner, your eyes just lit up like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever offered to do for you and I… how was I supposed to tell you that I couldn’t even boil pasta correctly?”

“Oh, Jean…” The slightest blush painted his cheeks. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Jean’s head cocked to the side. “Huh?”

“You chose to pretend you could cook even though you couldn’t all because you didn’t want to make me unhappy. And then you tried to do it anyway. You’re so wonderful, Jean.” The beaming smile that accompanied his words made Jean’s heart leap and ears burn. It was still a mystery to him how just a few simple words and that darn smile could melt him like ice cream on a summer day.

“T-thank you,” he stuttered nervously, running his hand through his hair. “You’re pretty fantastic yourself.” 

2.

_Knock, knock!_

“Door’s open!” Jean called, setting two plates down on the small table.

“Hello?” Marco’s bright voice filtered in from the entryway. Jean smiled to himself.

“I’m in the kitchen!”

“Doing what?”

Jean scoffed. “Cooking!”

“What?”

“Aren’t we full of questions tonight?”

“Jean, it smells amazing!”

The fair-haired boy smiled to himself, pivoting on his heels as he heard Marco’s footsteps make their way down the hall. The brunette appeared before him, wearing a navy blue cardigan sweater over a white t-shirt and jeans, trademark smile lighting up his face.

“You look nice,” Jean observed.

“Thanks. I’ve realized I try harder in class if I put some effort into what I’m wearing,” Marco nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “It makes me feel like an adult.”

“Marco, you are an adult,” Jean pointed out.

“Nuh-uh. Teen is still in the age,” Marco retorted, pointing as accusatory finger at his boyfriend. “I still have one year left before I officially become an adult.”

“Suit yourself,” Jean shrugged. “How many finals you got?”

“Five, and they’re all spread out. You?”

“Only three, two on Tuesday, one Thursday. And they’re all gross.”

“I’m sure. Even one final is disgusting.”

Jean nodded in agreement. Marco mirrored him, his face scrunching up in disgust. The older boy crossed his arms to try to look even more disgusted and petulant. Marco just mimicked him again. Jean wasn’t sure how much longer he could last without breaking.

“You haven’t hugged me yet,” Marco stated, face still wrinkled like a child’s. Jean narrowed his eyes.

“You haven’t hugged me yet,” he shot back.

With his lips still pursed and eyes narrowed, Marco unfolded his arms like wings. Jean shuffled forward, holding his arms stiff as a robots and trapping Marco between them. Marco’s ‘wings’ wrapped tightly around Jean, squeezing him tight. The older boy sighed, taking in the sweet smell of cinnamon, shampoo, and cologne that was the essence of his boyfriend.

“You made dinner,” Marco stated, his head perched on Jean’s shoulder.

“I did. I made spaghetti,” Jean replied with a proud smile he knew the brunette couldn’t see. “And I didn’t put dressing on the salad, so it’s still good. And I looked up a recipe for homemade garlic bread and didn’t burn myself in the process of making it.”

“Oh Jean.” Marco pulled back from the hug, cupping the fair-haired man’s face in his hands. “I’m so proud of you.” He tapped his nose to Jean’s, cute as a button. Jean clutched Marco’s wrists in his hands, rubbing his thumbs in circles over the back of the younger man’s hands.

“Well, get your taste buds ready for an explosion of deliciousness,” he said, leaving his boyfriend to the table and pulling a chair out for him. 

“Maybe, if you’re good, we can pull a _Lady and the Tramp._ ”

“Oh, how romantic,” Marco replied, wiggling his eyebrows as he walked to the table and took Jean’s proffered seat.

“We’re just warming up,” Jean whispered into his ear, sending goose bumps down Marco’s arm. And it wasn’t even six.

~

After dinner and singing a little Josh Groban while cleaning up the dishes, Jean and Marco found themselves on the couch, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of their night. The TV had been turned on, but no mind had been paid to it.

“You know what we should do?” Marco asked, sitting up with sudden inspiration, turning so that he was facing Jean, who for his part remained slumped against the back of the couch.

“Hm?”

“We should dance.”

Jean refrained from flinching. “What?”

“We should dance,” Marco repeated, patting his hand against Jean’s leg as if that would convince him it was a good idea. The older boy snorted and Marco’s shoulders fell as his eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. You don’t know how to dance, do you?”

Jean opened his mouth to protest, but then Marco’s one eyebrow arched up, and he sighed with defeat instead. “No. No, I do not.”

“Want me to teach you?” Marco asked, his spine straightening as his hands gripped Jean’s arm.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Jean replied.

“Aw, come on. It’ll be fun! I can teach you how to waltz!”

“Waltz?”

“Yeah, the waltz. You know, that fancy dance they always do in the movies with the men in suits and the women in those huge princess dresses?”

“Marco, I know what the waltz is,” Jean laughed. “But, I don’t know. That sounds difficult.”

“Oh no, the waltz is easy, Jean,” Marco said, standing up from the couch and holding out his hand. The older boy sighed and grabbed the proffered hand warily, letting the brunette pull him to his feet. “It’s just stepping around in a box. Here, let me show you.”

The brunette took a moment to assess their space before pushing the coffee table away towards the wall, opening up a generous square of space framed by the couch on one side, the TV opposite it, and an armchair on the other two. Satisfied with their dance floor, Marco motioned for Jean to watch him, and once he was sure hazel eyes were on him, the brunette stood up taller and placed his hands behind his back. He looked like a toy soldier.

“It’s just counting in threes,” Marco instructed. “One…” He took a step forward with his right foot, “Two…” then brought the left to meet it, “Three…” finishing by holding his head a little higher. “One…” This time, he took a step to the right with his right foot, “Two…” the left foot followed, “Three…” and finished with another nod of the head. “One…” this time the left foot stepped back first, “Two…” followed by the right, “Three…” and concluded with another nod. Marco repeated the motion one final time to the left. Jean’s eyes never left him once, watching each fluid motion. Completely captivated by his boyfriend’s grace.

“Okay, you’re turn,” Marco’s voice broke through Jean’s thoughts. “As fun as this is dancing by myself, I think it’ll be better together.”

“I think you’re gravely mistaken, but if it’ll make you happy,” Jean groaned, pushing himself up from the couch and taking Marco’s hand. The brunette wound his arm around Jean’s back, hand resting between the young man’s shoulder blades. Jean hesitantly brought his own arm into the same position, hand settling against the soft fabric of Marco’s sweater. “Now, follow me. I promise I won’t lead you astray.”

“I don’t think you’re capable of such a thing,” Jean replied with a charming smile. A tiny blush tinted Marco’s cheeks as he smiled the compliment off. “Lead away!”

“Okay, step forward with your left foot,” Marco instructed, bringing his right foot back. Jean did as he was told. “Then bring the right to meet it…. Now left to the side. And there’s your basic move. One two three. But you have to keep them moving cause, as you can see, we’re in the middle of a step right now.”

Jean bit his lip, watching his feet as he followed Marco’s lead. He messed up a few times, going left instead of right, but Marco wouldn’t let him stop until Jean had the hang of it. The two of them waltzed up and down, all through the living room, until it felt like walking to Jean.

“Think you’re ready for music?” Marco asked, eyes sparkling hopefully.

“Yeah, play anything you want,” Jean smiled. He didn’t know why, but his heart was beating much faster than it had been moments ago, and he knew that it wasn’t because of the dancing.

“How about we just set it to shuffle and see what happens?” Marco suggested, plugging the device into the stereo and clicking a few buttons. _Blank Space_ blared through the system. “Not that!” Marco laughed, selecting the next song. _The Circle of Life._ “Nope!”

The third song Jean had never heard before, but Marco left it on, scurrying back over the fair-haired man and grabbing his hand again.

“What is this?” Jean asked.

“You’ll love it,” Marco replied simply, settling his hand against Jean’s shoulder again, as if he’d never left. Jean nodded affirmatively and placed his own hand back on Marco’s shoulderblade, readjusting the one he held to make sure they wouldn’t fall free during the dance.

The lyrics appeared in the air like smoke.

_I don’t know you, but I want you all the more for that._

Marco led Jean forward as soon as the words began, counting the one, two, threes under his breath as if it were a secret meant only for Jean to know. They got in two full boxes in the first line alone.

_Words fall through me, and always fool me, and I can’t react._

The words washed right over Jean’s head, his mind reeling at top speed to stay in line with the steps Marco was leading him through. He had to do this right. He had to be perfect. For Marco. He had to be perfect for Marco.

_And games that never amount to more than they’re meant will play themselves out._

A small laugh drew Jean’s eyes up from his feet to his boyfriend’s face, (funny, since when had he been looking at his feet?) The smile on Marco’s face was practically glowing. Jean felt his heart constrict. “You’re doing great,” the brunette whispered, leaning close to Jean, his breath hot on his ear. Goosebumps ran down the older man’s arm.

He jumped slightly when the tempo of the music changed and Marco began to spin with him, still taking the same one, two, three steps in a circular path. In a panic, Jean pulled his hand from Marco’s and planted it firmly on the brunette’s waist, copying its twin. Marco’s laughter harmonized with the music as his own abandoned hand clasped Jean’s shoulder lightly.

_Take this sinking boat, and point it home, we’ve still got time. Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice, you’ve made it now._

The music paused again, and Marco stalled in his waltzing. Jean’s breath caught in his throat, but fell slowly as Marco led him in a simple pattern of two steps forward, then two steps back.

_Falling slowly. Eyes that know me. And I can’t go back. And words that take me, and erase me, and I’m painted black._

Marco pulled Jean back into their box steps, one, two, three, one, two, three…

_Well you have suffered enough, and warred with yourself. It’s time that you won._

The lyrics paused again and Marco stopped dancing, gesturing for Jean to lead.

“No.” The older boy shook his head but Marco simply nodded his head harder and harder the more Jean argued until the swell of the music was too much and Jean gave in, leading Marco through the simple box step again.

_Take this sinking boat, and point it home, we’ve still got time. Raise your hopeful voice. You have a choice. You’ve made it now._

With minimal hesitation, Jean attempted to spin their box, just as Marco had done earlier.

_Falling slowly. Sing your melody, I’ll sing along._

Jean laughed, the noise bubbling out of him against his volition as they continued to spin around the room, one two three, one two three. 

The song slowly came to an end and Michael Buble’s _Holly Jolly Christmas _started to play on from the stereo.__

“See?” Marco exclaimed, beaming. “Isn’t this fun?”

“I feel so aliiiive!” Jean sang in response, holding out the ‘I’ in alive and throwing his head back with another carefree laugh. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

“What? Dance? You’ve never asked,” Marco replied, halting their spinning as he pushed away from Jean, their hands still clasped tightly. Jean’s forehead wrinkled in question. Marco winked mischievously before releasing one of Jean’s hands and using the other to twist the fair-haired man under his arm like a princess in a Disney movie. The freckled boy spun him around a second time, and before Jean understood what was happening, they were chest to chest, Marco’s arm securely held right between Jean’s shoulder blades, their other hands still clasped and held out in tango position.

“So, you’ve mastered the waltz. Want to learn a new rhythm?” Marco asked demurely.

“I think I can fake a tango better than you could ever imagine,” Jean purred, raising his eyebrows. He lead Marco in a tight tango to the left, then the right, wishing he had a rose in his mouth to make it more perfect. At the end of their fifth revolution, Jean went for a dip.

“Ah!”

But Jean’s dramatic ending crumbled in a moment as his cry of warning weren’t enough to prevent the inevitable as his foot caught in the rug and Marco slipped right out of his hands. The brunette hit the floor with the dull thud and a muted cry of pain, and Jean fell rather ungracefully to his knees next to him, bracing his fall with his hands.

“Oh my god, Marco!” Jean exclaimed immediately, ignoring the slight tremors of pain shooting up his arms as he turned his full attention on the brunette, who was lying on the floor with a pained expression on his face. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Marco, can you hear me?” Jean slid closer to him and took Marco’s face in his hands, eyes scanning for cuts or scrapes or bones or something out of the ordinary.

What he did not expect was the laughter. Jean blinked, completely caught off guard as Marco bubbled over with near hysterical laughter. It was such a pleasant sound, ringing happily around the room as if they hadn’t just fallen on the floor in a heap of limbs. A laugh threatened to break Jean’s worry, and he fought to keep the smile off his face.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, shaking his head as he lost the battle with the smile.

“Nothing,” Marco replied, brushing a tear away from his eye and taking a deep breath to quell the laughter. “That was just… funny. Ah. My head hurts.”

“Yeah, you hit your head pretty hard,” Jean nodded, touching his fingers to Marco’s hair. “Are you okay?”

“More or less,” Marco answered, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. He winced, rubbing at the back of his head and Jean grimaced sympathetically, rubbing the boy’s shoulder to give him some kind of support. “Ah.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jean said. Marco’s eyes quickly rose to meet Jean’s, putting on a smile at the sincerity in the older boy’s voice.

“Please don’t worry about it,” he said softly. “It was the rug’s fault.”

“No, it was my fault. Let me see.”

Marco shifted so that the back of his head was facing Jean. The older boy gingerly rubbed his fingers over the back of Marco’s skull, checking for bumps or scraps. He didn’t feel any blood, so that was good right?

“Does this hurt at all?” Jean asked, his fingers tracing endless circles.

“Kinda,” Marco commented. “But it hurt before you touched it.” His body slumped back against Jean.

“Hey,” Jean snapped anxiously, snapping his fingers in front of Marco’s face. “No sleeping.”

“I wasn’t,” the freckled boy replied.

“What if you have a concussion?” Jean said, panic beginning to rise again. “Isn’t drowsiness a symptom of a concussion?”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

“How do you know?”

“I promise you, Jean. I am fine.”

“Well, I’m getting you ice for that.”

“Jean, it’s okay!”

“No. I’m getting you ice, and then we’re going to cuddle together on that couch so I can make sure you don’t have permanent brain damage.” Without another word, Jean pushed himself to his feet and raced to the kitchen, throwing together a ziploc bag full of ice cubes and snatching a towel from the drawer before sprinting back into the living room. Marco still sat on the floor, glancing up pitifully at Jean when he returned.

“Couch,” the older boy instructed, pointing to said couch. With a grunt, Marco pushed himself to his feet and stalked the three steps to the couch, falling face first into cushions. In any other circumstance, Jean would accused him of being drama queen, but now, it worried him. He rushed to the couch and sat down as Marco repositioned himself to sit properly on the furniture piece.

“Here,” Jean said, wrapping the ice bag in the towel and placing it softly against the back of Marco’s head. The brunette sighed contentedly, leaning back against the couch and letting his eyes slipped closed. A peaceful smile stretched across his lips. “Better?”

“Much,” Marco sighed. “This is all I need. Thank you so much.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

Marco cracked one eye open. “Yes. No concussion.”

“Okay.” Jean held his hands up defensively before reaching for the remote. “What Disney movie shall we watch then?”

“Who said anything about a Disney movie?”

“I’m sorry. I thought I was with Marco Bodt. Did I make a mistake?”

“No. Put in _Aladdin,_ please.” 

3.

_Knock Knock!_

Jean groaned, the sound just barely making it past the haze of semi-sleep and illness fogging up his brain. He rolled over on the couch, assessing the TV as if it had been the source of the noise. When the knock came again, clearly not from the TV, the young man groaned again, spurring a fit of rough coughs that left him exhaustingly breathless and his throat agonizingly sore. When the third knock came, Jean realized that the person would not go away, because the only person who knocked like that was Marco. And he wanted to see Marco.

With a tremendous amount of effort, Jean pushed himself to his feet. He lazily pulled the navy blue blanket with him, wrapping it around his shoulders like a cape as he shuffled to the front door. He would’ve been embarrassed by how long he fiddled with the lock before his fingers were finally able to open it, but he felt too awful at the moment to care.

The rush of cold air that met him when he opened the door was substantially ignored with the presence of the freckled angel standing right outside his door. “Aw, babe,” Marco cooed, his face falling into the most adorable pout of sympathy. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Cause,” Jean replied shortly, already shuffling back towards the couch. Marco entered the apartment and shut the door quietly, watching with worry etched all across his face as his boyfriend collapsed back onto the couch with another fit of coughing.

“Sweetheart, you sound awful,” Marco gushed, hurriedly pulling off his winter wear and hurrying to the couch. He placed a cool hand against Jean’s burning forehead, frowning as he did so. “And you’re burning up.”

“It’s just a cold,” Jean slurred, leaning into Marco’s touch; so cool, so soft, so Marco.

“No. No it’s not,” Marco shook his head, lips pulled into a serious line. “Wait here.”

“I can’t move,” Jean replied, knowing Marco couldn’t hear him. He was too tired after answering the door to call after him; that had been his first time off the couch in two days. The day after his last final, he’d woken up today unable to breath, coughing up both lungs, and burning up with a 101 degree fever. It had hit him out of nowhere with the power of a steam engine. Jean honestly couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt this sick. And he’d neglected to tell Marco until now, the day of his boyfriend’s last final.

“It’s cause of finals, isn’t it? All the late nights and coffee and junk food. Trust me, I’ve been there. Blame the finals,” Marco joked softly as he stepped back into the room, his lips pouting sympathetically at his pathetic mess of a boyfriend sprawled out on the couch. He held out a glass of water that Jean willingly accepted.

“I blame the finals,” Jean repeated, nodding sadly as he took a generous sip of the water.

Marco clicked his tongue in sympathy, brushing Jean’s hair away from his clammy forehead before moving to the kitchen again without a word. Jean didn’t need Marco to give him any excuses though. The brunette had been kind enough to come take care of him, and Jean hadn’t even asked him to. All he’d said was that he was sick, and Marco’s immediate response was ‘be right over.’

“Jean, you’re out of orange juice,” Marco said, appearing in the doorway.

“I never had any.”

“Well… do have any oranges, then? Or apples?”

“Nope.”

“What about medicine? Where do you keep that?”

“That’s another no.”

“You’re not good at this either, are you?”

Jean sighed. He could practically see the mom glare that was leveled at the back of his head right now, (Marco probably had his hands planted firmly on his hips, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes narrowed.) Instead of lodging an argument, he bent backwards over the arm of the couch, pouting at Marco upside down. “Marco, take care of me?” he whined, giving the best puppy dog eyes he could.

Marco scoffed. “Are you five?” he asked, rolling his eyes as he disappeared back into the kitchen. Jean sighed again, rolling his head back against the couch and closing his eyes.

“I have to go out for a minute and acquire some supplies. Can you hold out for half an hour?” Marco asked, stepping back into Jean’s line of sight all bundled up in his winter wear, pulling on his second glove.

“No,” Jean answered. Marco’s eyes widened at him with concern. “I’m kidding. Go.”

Marco smiled, so warm and sweet that Jean felt his heart give an extra beat. “I’ll be back soon as I can.”

Jean was asleep again before the door clicked shut.

~

Jean awoke to the feeling of someone shaking his shoulder. He moaned reluctantly, trying to shrug the intruder off.

“Jean. Wake up.”

The sing-songy voice belonged to Marco. Half of Jean’s brain told him to wake up and be good for his angel of a boyfriend. But the other half was telling him that he still wanted to sleep. And that half won.

Jean rolled over onto his side, facing away from Marco. He heard a sigh.

“Jean. Come on. Let’s make a deal. If you take this medicine for me now, then you can sleep for the rest of the day if you want.”

The first half of his brain told him to listen to Marco again. The other half cracked like a lightening bolt at the mention of the M word. Jean sat up slowly, eyeing Marco suspiciously over his shoulder.

“Medicine?” he asked, voice thick and groggy from sleep. His eyes took in the capful of red liquid held in his boyfriend’s hand. So it was true. Oh no. “No. I… don’t need that.”

“I’m pretty sure you do,” Marco nodded carefully. “So how about we make this as painless as possible and you just take the cup and drink it like an adult…”

“No, that’s okay,” Jean replied, still staring at the medicine cup like it was full of poison.

“Come on. It’s cherry flavored,” Marco said as a winning argument.

“That’s the worst flavor,” Jean argued.

“Not when it comes to this brand,” the freckled boy insisted, pushing the cup closer to Jean, who, for his part, tried to back away as much as possible. “Are you kidding me? Jean, you’re twenty-five!”

“Age doesn’t matter when it comes to how disgusting that stuff is,” Jean exclaimed. “I’ll be fine without it.” He turned away from Marco, couching roughly into his elbow.

“No you won’t, you stubborn mule,” Marco pouted, not backing down an inch. Jean continued to inch away. Marco gave an exasperated groan. “Fine.” Marco stood up and marched off into the kitchen. He returned ten minutes later with a green plastic cup in hand. “If you won’t take the medicine, at least drink this.”

Jean eyed the proffered mug skeptically. “What is it?”

“Orange juice. You need vitamin C,” the brunette replied, carefully handing the cup over. Jean accepted it warily and took a sip. “There. Now drink it all. I have soup started on the stove, and you’re going to eat all of that too. Please tell me you’ve been eating.”

“Sort of,” Jean muttered guiltily. Marco narrowed his eyes. Jean fell back against the couch. “I haven’t felt like eating, or moving. Both my appetite and energy are at zero. Sue me.” He finished his sentence with a pathetic sniffle and took another sip of his juice.

“Let me guess. You haven’t been drinking water either,” Marco stated plainly. Jean shook his head. “Jean, what are we going to do with you.” The brunette shook his head as he maneuvered back into the kitchen. Jean sighed, flopping back against his pillow. He already felt awful; he didn’t need to Marco to see how pathetic he was. Yet here they were. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called him right away…

“Okay, soup’s not ready yet, but I have something else.”

Jean turned at the sound of Marco’s voice and was immediately offered a steaming mug.

“What’s that now?”

“Tea. It’s good for your throat,” Marco answered, still sounding rather annoyed with him. Jean uncurled himself from his defensive position and accepted the cup, trading the empty juice cup for the mug, and took a tentative sip. The warm liquid rushed down his throat with a warming sensation that felt so soothing that he could’ve cried.

“Marco why does this taste so good?” he asked, closing his eyes to relish in the feeling.

“Secret family recipe,” the brunette replied, smiling as he settled down on the arm of the couch.

“What’s in it?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Tea leaves. Water. Cherry flavored cold medicine….”

“You sneaky devil!” Jean exclaimed, taking another sip. “You’re so lucky this actually tastes good…”

Marco grinned. “Works every time. So how about you finish that for me, and then you can go back to sleep?”

“Sleep? But you just got here,” Jean said.

“I know, but your body needs it,” Marco replied with a soft smile as he ran his fingers through Jean’s hair. “I’ll be here when you wake up. And then the soup’ll be ready. Sound like a plan?” He held out his pinkie for a promise.

“Fine.” Jean wrapped his finger around Marco’s, and that was that.

~

Or that was that until an hour later, when Jean’s fever skyrocketed and he woke up, screaming from a nightmare. The world around him pitched and spiraled, caught between dream and reality as his mind raced. The sudden motion and intake of air spurred a violent coughing fit, Jean gasping for air with each gasp.

“Jean!”

He could hear Marco’s voice, feel his hands reaching out to settle him, comfort him. But that couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his face.

“Oh babe, you’re okay,” Marco whispered, settling onto the couch and holding Jean close.

“Marco, make it stop,” Jean whined, wrapping his arms around the brunette’s waist and digging his face into his hip. Marco laughed softly, rubbing his hand up and down the young man’s back.

“Shhh, you’re okay,” Marco said soothingly. “Here, scoot over.” Jean sat up begrudgingly, watching as Marco pulled both legs up onto the couch, crisscrossing them, set Jean’s pillow across his knees, and motioned for the fair-haired boy to lie back down. Jean obeyed without any complaint, his head falling willingly into Marco’s lap. The brunette’s fingers went to work massaging circles into his throbbing temples.

Marco began to hum. Jean recognized the melody, but couldn’t place the song. Regardless, it was the best he’d felt in days.

Marco started singing, softly crooning the words to Josh Groban’s _You Raise Me Up,_ a song he had introduced to Jean immediately upon learning that the older man hadn’t heard it. _Jean, it’s like the best song ever! Just listen to this guy’s voice! It’s heavenly!_

Jean smiled at the memory of the look of pure bliss on Marco’s face as the song poured from the stereo. Marco loved music, and while Jean had always loved it too, he enjoyed it even more now experiencing it with Marco. The brunette really felt the music, let the lyrics pull him in and show him a new world, let the rhythms and melodies push and play with his emotions. Listening to music with Marco was like watching a movie, and being in it at the same time. Singing was a whole other affair.

_You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains. You raise me up to walk on stormy seas._

Jean’s smile deepened as he felt his eyes growing heavy as Marco’s smooth voice washed over him like a wave, lulling him to sleep. This was the best he’d felt in days, maybe months. Maybe ever. Perhaps this was the epitome of happiness.

_I am strong when I am on your shoulders. You raise me up to more than I can be._

4.

Jean had spent the day preparing himself to fall flat once again in front of his boyfriend, for at least the fourth time that month. Except this time, he’d be literally falling flat. He and Marco had planned to go ice-skating with some of their friends, much to Jean’s chagrin. Sure, begin bad at ice-skating was socially acceptable: it was funny to watch someone stumble around and fall on their butt all night. Unless, of course, you were the person falling all over the place. Which Jean knew he would be. Cause he was Jean Freaking Kirschtein and things like that happened to him.

But fate had had other plans.

“ _Achoo!_ ”

“Bless you,” Jean called from the kitchen.

A weak “Thank you,” floated in from the living room. Jean smiled to himself as he stirred the pot on the stove again. He pursed his lips as he inspected the soup inside. It wasn’t quite ready yet, but that was okay. They had all night.

His saving grace had shown up in the form of a pale, feverish Marco at three that afternoon. It took one look at the glassy eyes and flushed cheeks strategically hidden behind hat, scarf, and coat collar for Jean to usher his boyfriend inside, offer him a pair of pajamas, and set him up on the couch with a box of tissues and at least five blankets. Marco hadn’t moved since.

Jean adjusted the heat on the stovetop and skipped back into the living room to the lump of blankets on the couch. The fair-haired man smiled as he sunk to his knees next to the brunette curled up under all those blankets.

“Hey,” Jean whispered, carding his hand through Marco’s hair. The brunette’s eyes peeled open. Marco gave a quiet moan, curling up tighter on his side. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like death ran me over with a two by four,” Marco replied, coughing roughly into the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“I don’t think that’s a thing,” Jean chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“Well that’s how I feel,” the brunette answered, sounding on the verge of tears. “I can’t breathe, I don’t want to move, talking hurts…”

“I know, babe,” Jean cut him off, kissing his warm forehead gently to silence him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Marco replied, swallowing thickly around his sore throat.

“Yes it is, you goof,” Jean argued. “Who do you think you caught it from? If you hadn’t taken care of me last week…”

“You would have died from your own inexperience and lack of vitamin C,” Marco interrupted, offering him a teasing smile that was only slightly hampered by his flushed cheeks and Rudolph-red nose.

“Right, I sometimes forget that you’re my hero,” Jean said, running his hand through the brunette’s hair yet again.

“No, you’re my hero,” Marco corrected. Jean cocked his head to the side, wrinkling his eyebrows as he brought the back of his hand to the brunette’s forehead.

“Hm, I think your fever’s getting higher,” he said, shaking his head with a hopeless sigh. Marco swatted his hand away with a click of his tongue, narrowing his eyes as Jean gave him a mischievous smirk.

“Jean, I’m serious,” Marco said, “You are my hero. You’re in grad school to become a professor. And on top of that, you’re trying to write a book. No, wait, two books! And you still make time to hang out with me. That’s amazing!” Jean felt a blush rise to his cheeks, his heart skipping in his chest at the words pouring off his boyfriend’s lips. “You’re like a superhero, Jean.”

“I don’t think I’d go that far,” the fair-haired man replied with a forced chuckle, rolling his eyes. With a sudden severity, Marco grasped his hand and squeezed it tight. Boyfriend sensors tingling, Jean sat up a little straighter, forehead creasing anxiously as he searched those brown eyes for a sign of what was wrong. “Marco?”

“Jean,” Marco said slowly. The older boy felt his spine tingle as each letter filled the air, tender and musical in Marco’s voice, sore throat or not. “You are my Superman. My knight in shining armor. And I need you to know that.”

“Are you always this sappy when you’re sick?” Jean joked, a side smile pulling at his lips, hiding the mad hammering of his heart and the butterflies throwing a fiesta in his stomach.

Marco smiled. “You’re not very good at answering these kinds of things, are you?”

“Nope,” Jean shook his head. Marco’s smile deepened, and Jean couldn’t help but smile back. Or at least he did until the butterflies in his stomach got too antsy and he panicked. “You’re hand’s really sweaty.”

“Gosh, Jean, way to ruin the moment,” the freckled boy laughed, slipping his hand away from his boyfriend as if he were offended. Jean opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sound of the pot boiling over on the stove. Both boys shared a wide-eyed glance before Jean sprinted back to the kitchen.

“Is everything okay?” Marco called after him.

“Yeah! Don’t worry!” Jean called back, but he was sure Marco didn’t hear, cause he could hear the other boy coughing. The yelling probably irritated his throat, seeing as though just talking seemed to be bothering him as it was. Jean decided he should probably grab him some water before returning again. He pulled the pot away from the stove and turned off the burner, moving to grab a mug from the cupboard. Mug procured, he carefully filled it three quarters full with chicken soup and left the rest in the pot on the stove.

Halfway back to the living room, Jean had an idea. He took a deep breath to steady himself before very slowly stepping around himself in a box, prepping for a full, one-man waltz. If Marco didn’t get to see him fall flat on his face on the ice, maybe a performance of the dance he’d taught him would lift his spirits.

Jean continued to waltz all the way from the kitchen to the living room, turning smoothly over his right shoulder and taking the steps into a round just as he crossed the threshold between rooms. He kept spinning, a melody echoing in his head, keeping him on beat all the way to the center of the living room.

“Jean!” The exclamation prompted another round of coughs that required sitting up to quell.

“What?!” the fair-haired man asked, freezing halfway through a spin to address his boyfriend.

Swallowing hard, Marco gave a tiny laugh. “You were just waltzing!”

Jean looked down at his feet with wide eyes, mouth falling agape, as if he hadn’t been in control of his feet as they’d just gracefully swept him around the room. “Well, would you look at that!” he exclaimed with a bright smile in the brunette’s direction. “It’s a Christmas miracle!” Marco laughed. “No, but really, I had been practicing so I could impress you with my skills when you came over but guess who ruined that one,” he added with overly exaggerated sarcasm as he perched himself on the arm of the couch.

“Sorry,” Marco frowned with a rueful sniffle. He pouted his lips up at Jean to prove his regret. Jean carded his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair, a small smile instinctively tugging at his lips.

“You know I’m just teasing you,” the older boy said softly.

“I know,” Marco whispered back, his smile lighting up his eyes.

The site of that smile made Jean’s heart skip, and instead of acting upon it, he offered the mug to the young man.

“Soup,” he declared, waiting until Marco’s hands were firmly tucked around the mug before letting it go.

“Mmm, it look delicious,” Marco said, smiling down at the steaming liquid inside the mug. “Did you make this?”

“I did,” Jean grinned proudly, leaning against the back of the couch. Marco leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Someone gave me a real good recipe the other day.” Marco hid his smile behind the mug, taking a tentative sip. The steam rose around his face, deepening the flush in his cheeks. Jean watched in anticipation as Marco assessed his culinary creation.

A beaming smile encompassed his vision. “Jean, this is amazing!” Marco complimented brightly, or brightly as he could given the sorry state his voice was currently in. “Best I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, you’re just saying that,” Jean replied, eye dropping to the hem of his sweater, which his fingers began to pick at.

“No. Jean, I mean it,” Marco replied, taking another sip. He sighed afterward, shoulders depressing serenely. “I can practically feel my health returning to me.”

“Really?”

“A bit,” Marco shrugged, sniffling before giving a short laugh. “I think I really just feel better cause you’re here.”

Jean’s heart gave a leap, propelling him off the arm of the couch. Marco’s eyes followed him curiously as the older man glided back to the sink and pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. He popped back into the living room to see a knowing smile on Marco’s face. _Guess he’s picked up on how my body reacts to with love in its system,_ Jean thought as he plastered a grin on his face and waved the water so Marco could see.

“Gotta stay hydrated,” he said lamely. Marco nodded, that smug grin never leaving his adorable, freckled face.

Jean hopped over the back of the couch to join the brunette, throwing the water bottle on the floor and opening his arms and gesturing for Marco to snuggle with him. He’d never be able to forget the way the freckled boy’s face lit up with a smile as he curled up in Jean’s arms, head resting on the center of his chest as the older boy’s arms wrapped protectively around him. One hand began to stroke Marco’s hair.

“Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“Have I ever told you that I love you?”

“Yes, you have.”

“Really?” Marco asked, pulling his head away ever so slightly, just enough to see the hazel of Jean’s eyes.

“Well, you said it to me when you taught me how to cook instead of getting upset with me for burning everything,” Jean answered plainly. Marco blinked, his breath catching slightly. “You said it when you put kisses and Band-Aids on those burns when I accidentally took things out of the oven without protective gear. You said it to me when you taught me how to dance instead of laughing at me for never learning. You said it to me when I dropped you and nearly gave you a concussion, and you laughed instead of yelled. You said it to me when you forced medicine down my throat even after I snapped at you. You said it to me when you hid under the kitchen table with me what the storm hit.” Jean brought one of his hands up and ran his thumb over Marco’s cheek, where a stray tear had started to roll down amidst the freckles. “You’ve never actually said it out loud, but you don’t have to. I can hear you loud and clear.” Marco’s bottom lip began to quiver, and Jean was scared he was about to start crying for real.

Instead, Marco buried his face in Jean’s chest, his arms hugging the older boy even closer than before.

“Marco?” Jean asked softly, his eyebrows wrinkling in confusion and worry.

“Why are you so wonderful?” Marco asked, his voice muffled in Jean’s shirt. The older boy smiled, his hand resting on the top of Marco’s head.

“I learned from the best,” he whispered, kissing Marco’s forehead. Warm brown eyes rose to meet his once again, and Jean took the opportunity to kiss him again, his lips meeting the warm skin of the boy’s forehead for a second time. Marco blinked, a small, blissful smile poised on his lips that Jean was sure would be there for the rest of the night. Automatically, the older boy leaned down and pressed the softest peck of a kiss against those lips. Against all the laws of physics and biology, Marco’s smile widened even more as he nuzzled his head against Jean’s chest again, planting his ear next to the soft fabric of his t-shirt so he could hear the older boy’s heart beating.

Jean continued to stroke Marco’s hair until his boyfriend fell asleep, that smile still lighting up his face.


End file.
